Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
by Nyx Raisa
Summary: Somewhere, a clock is ticking. He is running out of time. AJ Styles/Desmond Wolfe slash, weird religious overtones, utter strangeness


**Notes: This was inspired by two things, Slashburd's fic "Standing In The Light Of Your Halo" which you should go look up RIGHT NOW, it's in my faves. The other thing is the song "Somewhere a Clock is Ticking" by Snow Patrol. I'm pretty sure I was possessed this morning when I wrote this, because I have been going "What is this? I DON'T KNOW!" at myself all day. Finally, I was going to make it part of my Sinking Ship series, but I really think it needs to stand on its own. **

Somewhere, a clock is ticking. It echoes down the hall into his room and AJ finds himself timing his breathing to the sound. Inhale, three ticks. Hold for one. Exhale, three ticks. Repeat.

He doesn't know how he got here.

No, that's a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, he knows exactly every word and every motion and every moment that brought him here, from the decision and the moment when he dropped to his knees before certain elder members of the staff, to every moment after, onwards and forever, amen.

A year ago he wouldn't have made that decision. Six months ago. That's what he doesn't know, what he doesn't understand. How that man became this man, lying in this bed and matching his breath to a clock he can't see, the only decision before him that he can recognize is to stop breathing.

Three ticks. Inhale. Hold. Three ticks. Exhale. Repeat.

It's impossible to kill yourself by holding your breath. You may pass out, but the moment you become unconscious, your brain starts breathing for you. How very considerate.

Suicide's a mortal sin. Homosexuality's a venial sin. So is polyester. At this point, all of this seems irrelevant. Somewhere, the clock softly chimes the quarter hour. Of what hour, he doesn't know. It's late. It's dark. His bed is lined in cool, crisp 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets, colored burgundy. They were a gift. When Ric handed the package – luxury all around, was his reasoning – AJ could see the black desire in the old man's eyes, could see Ric fucking him on these sheets. He took the gift, he put the sheets on the bed in his Orlando apartment, and so far he had avoided that end.

So far.

A door shuts, not loudly, and there's a creak in the hall, another creak in the doorway, and he looks up. Desmond is standing in the doorframe, leaning his shoulder against one side, his arms crossed over his chest. His face is guarded, even without the sunglasses.

For a moment, AJ forgets to breath. The clock echoes into his head and he reminds himself. Three ticks, inhale. Hold. Three ticks, exhale. Repeat.

"I thought you left," AJ says, addressing the ceiling with closed eyes instead of the man in the doorway. Desmond shakes his head, knowing AJ doesn't see it. The floor creaks again as Desmond walks further into the room. He flicks the topsheet to the floor, letting it puddle at the foot of the bed. AJ feels his body tense and relax at the cool air, his core muscles tightening and then appearing to give up. His legs decide to spread of their own accord and his heels skid across the sheet. Desmond takes the invitation and settles atop and between and around him.

"Des," AJ whispers helplessly as his hands come up to grasp his shoulders. Desmond doesn't answer, but presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat, scrapes his teeth along his collarbone, drags his hands down his thighs. Warm skin, he thinks, digging his fingers into Desmond's lower back. Is this a sin? Are lips a sin? Are hands? Maybe it starts at the tongue, he thinks, and moans low in his throat as Desmond traces a pattern down his chest and to his stomach. Has to be the tongue, lies and deadly promises and the things you don't protest to all run from the tongue.

His breathing staggers as wet heat teases him and then enfolds. The ticking, he tries to remind himself, but it's no use. Three ticks, or four, or two, inhale. Exhale. Repeat. No holding. No pattern. Just breathe. There is heat, there is suction, there are cool burgundy sheets fisted in one hand, warm skin under the palm of the other and there is no ticking, no time and no sin.

He hears himself whispering the name of his lord and savior under his breath like a litany. He is not saved. He will never be saved. God turned His back on him when he fell to his knees and opened his mouth in exchange for pretty promises. White light flashes behind his eyes and it's no Rapture but his own, no ecstasy but release, and he hears Desmond's name on his tongue, caught somewhere in his throat. Was that the name he had been saying all along?

The movement stops, the heat dissipates and AJ opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He wipes his hand on the bed beside him. The white release on the red sheets seems like a sacrilege and for a moment, he is bitterly pleased. Let it, he thinks. Let me be marked by something more than expensive suits and darkened sunglasses and deception.

He stares up at the ceiling and wipes his face with his other hand, struggling to realign his breathing. Inhale, three ticks. Hold. Exhale, three ticks. Repeat. The clock chimes the half hour. He still doesn't know which He breathes. He does not know who he has become. He tries to pray, but there is no answer. He will not be saved. Seconds are dripping off his fingertips and he is running out of time. There is no clock in his apartment.


End file.
